A Perfect Lie
by Narutodays
Summary: when Alfred travels to England to stay with an old friend of his father's, he expects a fun, carefree trip. What he gets is far from it: As Alfred works to uncover the truths in the mysterious Kirkland family, he begins to realise that all is not as it seems. Will he be able to unravel the past, and can he save the young Kirkland boy, Arthur, from the daily suffering he endures?
1. Chapter 1

**A Perfect Lie**

 **Hey guys! It's been ages since I wrote a fanfic, and after going over my previous ones I think this one is way better in terms of writing quality and storyline. Anyway, hope you enjoy!**

 **Chapter 1**

The day Alfred arrived on the Kirkland farm, the weather was bitterly cold; though autumn was only beginning to clutch at the sea bound country, the weather up in the highlands of the North Yorkshire Moors had taken a turn for the worse. Alfred squinted through his glasses up at the farm, noting that the almost horizontal drizzle had covered the lenses and made everything around him blurry. It was just as well, he thought, since the place already seemed so dismal that he didn't want to look at it in more detail than was truly necessary.

He'd taken a taxi from Gatwick airport the day before- the wonderful city of London, though doused in rain and mist, had excited him to his very core, and in his naïve, sleep-deprived mind, he had assumed that Yorkshire couldn't be so far away from this exciting hub of activity.

He was wrong, of course.

After spending the night at a B&B which surely had worse service than a diner in Montana , he was awoken by a phone call from Mr. Kirkland asking him in a gruff voice whether the journey had been ok and if he was on his way yet. It was only then that Alfred realised that he'd missed his alarm; he hastily babbled that yes, he was on his way, but there was traffic so he might arrive a little later than planned. He then dressed himself at a rate of knots and hailed down the first cab that passed him on the already busy streets of London.

In hindsight, he should've set multiple alarms that morning, for the traffic was, as he'd unfortunately predicted, extremely bad. For hours, he sat in the back of the black vehicle with its dark tinted windows as the driver shouted obscene profanities at nobody in particular. For once in his relatively short life, Alfred wished he liked reading books, for that would've made the journey a little more enthralling than it turned out to be; there was only so much pleasure he could derive from the games on his dying phone and the views of the flooded pavements outside.

And now, after a hellish 7-hour drive from the hustle and bustle of London, he stood outside the humble abode of the Kirkland family.

He stayed poised on the doorstep, his feet shuffling in anticipation. Now that he was here, in what appeared to be 'the middle of freakin' nowhere', Alfred wasn't so sure about his decision to come and stay with the family. It had all been his father's idea: Mr. Jones was a highly successful business man, but not such a brilliant father. Since the divorce of his wife- Alfred's mother- when Alfred was only two years old, Mr. Jones had resented the responsibility of being a father to the young boy, though the child was entirely ignorant of this fact. He had on many occasions tried to pass his young son Alfred onto his biological mother, but she had long since left the country to live in Chile with her new lover and his family. Needless to say, contact with her was akin to impossible.

So instead he'd hired a host of nannies to keep Alfred looked after. Over the years, He had in fact grown relatively fond of his son, what with his boisterous antics and unprecedented joie de vivre. But still, he kept a safe distance so as not to become too involved and, by consequence, too responsible for the growing boy. Then, when Mr. Jones was contacted by an old friend from his university days, he had immediately asked whether his wonderful 18-year old son could stay with the other to understand a different way of life and 'improve his cultural knowledge of the world'. He wanted Alfred to grow into a cultured young man, though it was less because he cared about Alfred's future and more about proving to Alfred's vanished mother that he was a far more capable parent than she, should she ever come knocking. He also knew that it wouldn't do for a well-known businessman like himself to have a rebellious teenage son as so many citizens of high ranking had had before. So, without so much as a goodbye, Alfred found himself shipped off to what appeared to be the most desolate place in the whole wide world. He now regretted having eagerly agreed to his father's grand scheme…

The cold had begun to penetrate Alfred's loose hoodie and he shivered involuntarily. He looked up at the house, noting the white plaster walls and the low thatched roof. It was nothing like his modern apartment in New York, which he longed for with all his heart at that moment in time…

Well, here goes nothing, he thought as he lifted his shaking hand to the oak door before him and knocked hesitantly. At first he heard nothing, and was about to knock again when the murmur of muffled voices rose from within the small cottage. The sound of a bolt being undone rang out, and Alfred gulped loudly as the door creaked open; a tall man peaked out, squinting down at Alfred with acid green eyes.

Alfred took in a deep breath and grinned at the man, lifting his hand in a small waving motion;

"Hello there sir! I'm Alfred F Jones! Thank you for allowing me to come stay with you! I hope I can be of great help to you and your family".

Though the speech was well-rehearsed, it still came out a little hoarsely, and Alfred cringed as his voice warbled with nerves. Mr. Kirkland, however, appeared unfazed by it. Alfred averted his eyes as Mr. Kirkland studied him for longer than seemed truly necessary before he looked up to find the door opening further and the other man's form filling the hallway. Alfred hadn't noted just how large Mr. Kirkland was until that very moment; he stood at least a head and half above Alfred, who was already tall at 6ft 2". He had wide shoulders and his face was weather-beaten and stern. Alfred tried not to cower away from the huge man as he stepped into the warm home.

"Ye look just like ye father"

Alfred jumped at the sound of the gruff voice before turning to smile politely at Mr. Kirkland, scratching his head nervously. "Thanks, I guess" he said. Mr. Kirkland just grunted, then motioned for Alfred to follow him further into the house. As Alfred made to pursue the taller man, Mr. Kirkland looked over his shoulder and muttered "Taker yer shoes off by the door". Alfred blushed and nodded, before bending down and untying his shoe laces with shaky, frozen fingers.

The house smelt of baking bread and wood, with a slightly musty undertone that was only detectable if one focused on it for a few moments. The floor beneath Alfred's feet was wood panelling, and further down the hallway a wool rug lay proudly, its worn fibres standing haphazardly above the solid flooring. The roof was low and wooden beams were clearly visible; Alfred had never seen anything like it. His father had said that Mr. Kirkland (who was in fact named Albion, Alfred found out later) and his family lived in a cottage, but Alfred hadn't really understood exactly what that meant until now.

Noise from the kitchen brought Alfred out of his thoughts and he hurried towards it, heart thrumming nervously in his chest. His eyes widened when he entered the room, for his father had failed to mention one tiny detail to him:

The Kirkland family was BIG.

At the long wooden table, 7 people were sat, each eyeing him with a mixture of surprise and excitement.

All was a blur after that; Alfred was rapidly introduced to all the children by Mrs. Kirkland ("Please, call me Fleta") though he'd forgotten them all just a few seconds later. Then they all sat down for dinner: Alfred was very conscious that everyone was watching him as he gratefully accepted the food and began to eat, and soon he was being bombarded with questions about America.

"What's New York like?"

Oh, well, it's uh, big, I guess…"

"Have you travelled around America?"

"Nuh uh! It's a huge place man! Never had the time"

"What food do you eat there?"

"Well it's like here but better- and oh boy, the hamburgers are great!"

Alfred began to feel at home as the family laughed with him and talked to him as if they'd known him for years. Perhaps this trip would be fun after all!

After a while, however, he noticed that one member of the family was staying stoically silent; a boy, sat on the farthest edge of the table, who clearly did not care about the appearance of the American, or indeed any of the chatter that was flying between the other members of his family. Alfred eyed the boy with mild intrigue, unable to remember his name. 'what a weird kid' he thought to himself, before his attention was once again stolen by another probing question from another member of the family.

After dinner, Alfred was given the sweet mercy of going to bed; Fleta showed Alfred his room, which was up in the attic of the cottage. Alfred thanked her and she smiled warmly at him before closing the door and leaving him to his own devices.

That night, Alfred lay staring up at the ceiling, trying to sort out his thoughts on the family he was now destined to stay with. He furrowed his brow as he tried to recall the names of each family member: Mr and Mrs Kirkland were easy to remember because their names were so strange- Albion and Fleta (though Alfred knew he would never have the courage to call Mr. Kirkland anything but Mr. Kirkland). Their children were harder to remember, though Alfred did recall that the oldest child, with fiery red hair and a loud voice, was called Allistair. Then came twins- a boy and a girl who both had curly, ginger hair and many freckles. He knew the girl was called Alannah, but the boy's name completely escaped him. The only other he remembered was the youngest child's name, because he'd ensured to reiterate that his name was "Peter Kirkland!" at least seven times in his hyper excitement at having the visitor in his house. Alfred suddenly found that his thoughts had wandered back to the silent boy at the end of the table. The kid had sandy coloured hair and large eyebrows, clearly a trait inherited from his huge father. I wonder what he's called, Alfred pondered. It then occurred to him that in fact, the boy hadn't been introduced at all, at least not that he remembered. How odd… I wonder if maybe it was just because they were all so excited an' he was just… Well… quiet… Eventually, Alfred's thoughts drifted and within minutes, sleep had taken him into its heavy embrace.


	2. Chapter 2

**Apologies for this chapter being a bit short! I know it's not brilliantly written, but hope you enjoy it anyway :)**

 **Chapter Two.**

The next day was like nothing Alfred had ever experienced, and _not_ in a good way.

He was woken at half past five the day after his arrival and told to get dressed and come down for breakfast. Bedraggled and confused, the poor American was then whisked outside into the foggy cold of dawn and shown where he would be helping out on the farm. Alfred hadn't realised what exactly farm life had entailed until that day; he'd mistakenly assumed that it was easy and -god forbid- _exciting_ to do such labour! Alfred shook his head and cursed his own ignorance as he lifted another hay bale from the cobbled yard. He still felt lucky compared to Mr. Kirkland's other children- if he squinted into the distance, he could see them busy on the horizon, harvesting the vast fields of barley and sugar beet that stretched over the barren hills.

Alfred shivered and turned back to his work; at least it was slightly warmer in the barn, what with the horses and the cows in their various pens. The musty smell of the wooden walls filled his nostrils, and the gentle noises and the rustling of animal feet in the straw soothed Alfred as he worked. So enveloped was he in the timeless atmosphere around him, he almost missed the sound of someone entering the barn behind him. He was lifting a particularly heavy bale at the time, but when he turned and saw none other than the silent blonde boy from the night before, he jumped violently and dropped the hay. The boy smiled a little and came to pick up the hay, handing it back to Alfred with ease before heading over to the animal pens. Alfred's face flushed in embarrassment, and all he could do was nod in thanks as the boy picked up the hay for him.

However, curiosity got the better of him and he wondered a little closer to the pens himself to see what the boy was doing; the blonde was inside the pen, and with soothing noises he carefully pushed a halter onto the face of one of the horses, gently caressing its elegant, muscular neck as he led it out of the pen and tethered it outside. He then returned, carrying a rake and what appeared to be a dustpan with a long handle: Unaware of Alfred's probing gaze, the boy began to pick up the manure left on the cobbled floor, quickly raking it into the dustpan. When it was full, he walked outside and dumped it in a pile a small distance from the barn, which Alfred had overlooked until then. He repeated this process until the floor of the pen was clean, then he led the horse back in, it's hooves hitting the hard stone floor loudly and filling the large space with sound. The blonde proceeded to remove the halter from the horse's chestnut face, then spread some hay onto the floor of its pen. But as he caught Alfred's gaze, he froze in mid work and looked down, his face contorting into an expression that Alfred couldn't quite place.

The American suddenly felt guilty for having not tried to converse with the poor boy, and he awkwardly cleared his throat;

"U-um, hey!... Uh… I'm Alfred" Alfred cursed how stupid he sounded, but the boy didn't laugh at him. He just nodded. Then, in the smallest voice, he muttered "I know". Alfred grinned widely and took a few steps towards the other blonde, who seemed to watch him warily as he approached.

"I'm sorry man, I don't remember your name!" Alfred scratched his head and chuckled a little as he spoke; "I'm not good at remembering things really, and you all have weird names!" He covered his mouth in realisation at what he'd said, but Arthur shook his head forgivingly.

"That's ok... M-my name's Arthur".

"Nice to meet you, Arthur!"

The boy, who had been bent over sweeping, suddenly looked up, his eyes slightly widened in surprise, though because of what Alfred couldn't imagine- he'd just been polite! Before Alfred could say anything more, Arthur began to blabber a little incoherently-

"Uh-there's-need to- lots to do-I've got to go!" And with that, he grabbed the pan and rake in one hand and sped out of the barn into the light drizzle that had begun to fall outside.

Alfred watched him in utter confusion until the blonde boy was out of sight, then shook his head with a smile and got back to work.

Arthur, on the other hand, found himself behind the barn, arms wrapped tightly around himself as his mind reeled.

He couldn't believe what he'd heard! The American boy was _pleased_ to meet him?! Arthur sucked in breath as he tried to slow his thrumming heart. _Don't be an idiot, Arthur- he doesn't know… If he knew, he wouldn't be pleased to meet you. Don't be dim Arthur. Imagine if he knew about where you came from- You're disgusting! You don't belong anywhere! You're—_

"No! _Stop_!"

Arthur shook his head vigorously, desperately trying to quieten the loudening the voice within his brain, his hands balling into fists as he fought with it angrily. Finally, the voices subsided, leaving only the dull thud of his own heartbeat in his ears. Arthur leaned his head back against the rough wood of the barn and closed his eyes. The voices were right; if Alfred ever found out about him, he would hate Arthur as much as everyone else. Arthur prayed that Alfred would never discover the truth.

"What are you doing?"

Arthur almost jumped out of his skin and as his eyes snapped open, he felt his stomach fill with dread at the sight of his father standing before him, sweat glistening on his brow from his hard labour in the field. How long had he been standing there watching? Arthur flushed in embarrassment and lowered his head submissively.

"N-nothing!" He stuttered, "I just had a headache".

His father grunted disapprovingly. "You _wretched_ boy! You haven't done anything remotely useful yet today, so stop being pathetic and come to help with the harvest. Your siblings are all working hard". Arthur cringed at his father's words and nodded quickly, falling into step behind his father as they headed towards the fields.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three.**

The smell of cooking greeted Alfred as he opened the door to the Kirkland cottage, and the warm blast quickly heated his cold nose and cheeks. It had been a long, hard day for the whole family, what with the need to get the crops in before the weather changed for the worse, bringing heavy frosts and snow flurries to the hills. Every one of them helped with the effort, including Fleta, who regularly brought warm drinks and food to the family whilst they laboured. Usually she'd be out in the field working beside them, but hip troubles had kept her indoors for the season.

"Man, I'm starving!" Allistair moaned, clutching at his stomach dramatically. His sister smirked and hit him over the head with a slipper; "shut it, you idiot". Alfred laughed at their pleasantries as he stepped out of his boots in the hall and followed them in. Mrs Kirkland confronted them before they could step into the kitchen; "Go and amuse yourselves for a while- dinner won't be ready for a little while yet" she smiled sweetly. The siblings groaned loudly and trooped into the living room instead, sprawling themselves carelessly on the sofa and the rug, which lay in front of a deep-set fireplace. A fire had been lit in the dark metal grill, and the flickering of the flames combined with the gentle heat it spread into the room made Alfred's eyelids droop as he sat down with the others. They chatted comfortably for a while, and it was only after a quick glance around that he noticed Arthur hadn't turned up yet. He sat up gently and tapped the shoulder of the boy to his right; he had shoulder-length wavy brown hair, and when he turned to face Alfred, the American noted that his eyes were a greeny blue, pale and clear like a lake. _Not as nice as Arthur's_ , his brain remembered, but Alfred pushed that thought away quickly.

"Hey!- uh- um….. Crap, what was your name again?" The boy raised his eyebrow and smiled in amusement.

"You certainly have a way with words" he chuckled, and Alfred grinned back warmly, blushing in embarrassment.

"I'm William" he continued, smiling gently at Alfred.

Something about the boy's disposition reminded Alfred of Fleta- he seemed rather maternal, not brash or brutish like his older siblings.

"Hey William! Sorry about that…" He scratched the back of his head apologetically, but the other boy just shrugged noncommittally and smiled again, so Alfred continued; "I was just wonderin' where Arthur was-" William's shoulders stiffened a little "-cos I didn't see him come in with us". William shifted his gaze to the fireplace and sighed quietly. Alfred looked on curiously, waiting for a reply.

Finally, the boy answered quietly "He's probably in the kitchen, helping with the cooking". Alfred nodded in understanding. "so, does he like cooking?" Alfred pressed, his inquisitive personality getting the better of him. However, before William could answer, Allistair cut in loudly- "Nah, he's terrible at cooking! He only does it because he's too lousy at hard labour in the field so we have to do most of the stuff out there for him!" Allistair groaned dramatically; "and then, when we come back in, we suffer more by his hand because whatever he cooks tastes like utter shi—"

"Time for dinner!" All heads turned to Mrs. Kirkland, who stood in the doorway with a menacing glint to her eye. Allistair seemed to cower a little under her scrutiny, but immediately hid it and stood up lazily with his siblings as they paraded into the kitchen.

"We don't use bad language in this house, Allistair", their mother chided behind them as they sat down. "I know, I know" Came the nonchalant reply from the redhead, followed by a dismissive wave of his hand. Mrs. Kirkland sighed but let her son's rudeness slide as she set about bringing dishes to the table.

Alfred eyed the steaming dish of what appeared to be mashed potato with ravenous hunger. Mrs. Kirkland caught his eye and she winked and approached the table. "This-" she gestured with her hand at the dish, "is cottage pie. Have you ever tried it?". Alfred furrowed his brow and shook his head. The woman smiled again. "It's very traditional here; it's just meat remains minced with onions and garlic with mashed potato on top. Very homely"

Alfred hadn't really been paying attention, but he nodded enthusiastically. "Sounds awesome!" He said, perhaps a little more loudly than he'd intended for everyone around the around the table began to laugh warmly.

"What's all this ruckus?"

All heads turned as Mr. Kirkland entered the warm kitchen and took his place at the head of the dining table, a small smile gracing his usually stoic face.

"Nothing dear, we were teaching Alfred about traditional English food, that's all" Mrs. Kirkland drifted over to her husband and kissed him on the cheek lovingly. Alfred watched on with a strange sadness that he couldn't quite work out the meaning of as she continued. "How was the work today? Are the crops looking well?"

Mr. Kirkland nodded and his eyes lit up; "aye, they're looking mighty this year; hardly any rot because it's been drier than usual this time round" Alfred choked a little on his own spit at that- if this was what dry looked like, what had last year been like? He shivered in horror at the thought. Soon the volume rose again as it had the night before as the family discussed and debated heatedly about things Alfred didn't really understand. It was only about 10 minutes in that Alfred observed that Arthur had mysteriously appeared at the table, his presence going almost unnoticed by everyone except Mr. Kirkland, who sent his son a look that Alfred couldn't quite comprehend. He was sat a little too far down the table for Alfred to make any kind of comfortable conversation with him, but at the end of the meal, as Arthur and William stood up to take the plates away, Alfred chirped up and said "That was really delicious! Thank you, Mrs. Kirkland," – "Please, call me Fleta"— "and thank you Arthur!".

He wasn't sure if he'd imagined it, but the room seemed to quieten a little, and Arthur stared at him wide-eyed from where he stood by the sink. Mrs. Kirkland quickly tried to cut through the growing tension; "Thank you, Alfred! We're glad you like—"

"He just peeled the potatoes and chopped the vegetables. There's no need to thank him since it's the only thing he's capable of doing."

All eyes turned once again to Mr. Kirkland, who seemed oblivious to the sudden attention as he wiped his mouth with a cloth.

Alfred couldn't believe what he'd just heard- at first, he'd imagined it was just a joke, but the serious look on Mr. Kirkland's face and the dejected look on Arthur's told him otherwise. Very suddenly, he started to feel anger and indignance boiling up within him, and he stood up, unaccepting of the harsh words directed towards the man's own son.

"Yes, but that still counts as helpi—"

"—Ossian and Alannah, go help with the drying of the dishes. You all need to go and do yer homework; yer only off for this week to help with the harvest" Mr. Kirkland's authoritative, husky voice spoke over Alfred's indignant one, and before the American could slip in another word edgeways the sound in the kitchen rose again as chairs scraped on the floor and groans erupted from the siblings. Alfred opened and closed his mouth hopelessly, knowing that the conversation had been forcefully ended and he could nothing about it. Resignedly, he got up and brought his dish to the sink whilst making sure to glare witheringly at Mr. Kirkland's back as he did so. As he approached Arthur, however, the smaller blonde quickly averted his eyes and took a subtle step back. Alfred was bewildered, and as he tried to say something to Arthur, he was cut off with a quiet "Don't" from the boy before he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked back to see Fleta smiling at him, though it seemed a little strained.

"Arthur's busy at the moment, but you can talk to him once he's done". The American was then led, gently but firmly, out of the kitchen.

He couldn't quite get his head round the events that had happened only moments ago: What had he said that was wrong? He wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but it seemed to him that Arthur was shunned by his family, most notably by his father. But he couldn't figure out why – after all, Arthur seemed like a perfectly nice boy, if a little shy, but that was no reason to hate him!

His thoughts were interrupted suddenly by a squeeze to his shoulder. Fleta watched him with sad eyes, and as he glanced around, Alfred realised they were alone in the hallway.

"Don't worry Alfred," she spoke softly, "my husband can just be a little snappy when he's tired." Alfred searched her face, and he noticed how her lips quivered ever so slightly, as if she was nervous. As he examined her, it occurred to him that she looked nothing like Arthur; her hair was auburn and her eyes a deep, vivid blue. Her skin, though pale, was covered with a light dusting of freckles. Realising that she expected some kind of response, he nodded dumbly and she smiled again reassuringly. As she turned to leave though, she paused and looked back at Alfred.

"Don't worry too much about Arthur, Alfred; my son can look after himself". With that, she turned and padded back to the kitchen, leaving Alfred alone with his thoughts.

Needless to say, Alfred was not consoled by her words: Not in the slightest.

That night, he sat stewing in his bed, unable to switch his mind off and forget the thoughts tumbling around within it.

Why was Arthur treated the way he was?

Why did he act so strangely?

Why did his family just accept what Mr. Kirkland said about him?

Alfred desperately wanted answers, but something told him that this family would be unwilling to divulge their secrets so willingly. Unbeknownst to Alfred, he would very soon be finding out the truth he so desperately craved.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you for the lovely reviews! I wasn't expecting such positive feedback! :) Really glad you guys are enjoying my story :) I'll be updating less regularly from now on because I'm getting a bit of writer's block, but hopefully not for too long! Anyway, enjoy :)**

 **Chapter Four.**

Many days passed with the same rhythm, though Alfred avoided asking anything he shouldn't: Instead, he became more observant, looking for changes in expression or whispered words that might give him a clue as to what on Earth was going on in the house. However, much to his chagrin, he heard absolutely nothing. To make things worse, Arthur avoided him like the plague, always slipping away before Alfred could so much as look at him.

On Saturday morning, the American woke to find the Sun shining through his dark red curtains, highlighting the motes that drifted lazily in the still air of the room. He stretched his arms above his head and yawned loudly, wondering what the time was, and why he hadn't been woken early like all the mornings before. He gently slipped the cover off himself and placed his feet onto the rug by the bed. It looked to be handmade, his mind told him sleepily. For the first time since his arrival, he wondered briefly who had made it. As he placed his glasses onto the bridge of his nose and peered around the dim room, it occurred to him that he hadn't really explored yet, since he hadn't been given the time to do so.

And if there was anything that Alfred loved, it was exploring.

And hamburgers, but that wasn't relevant.

With newfound excitement, he padded softly over to the small wooden desk on the other side of the room; upon closer inspection, Alfred saw that it was worn and battered, but the wood from which it was made still held a beautiful golden colour and the knots within the thick panels added to its rustic charm. Alfred's hand went out instinctively to the handle of one of the six drawers that lay beneath the desk top. He felt the excitement build within him as his fingers came into contact with the cold metal handle: With a quiet determination, he pulled it open gently to reveal…

A pile of books.

Alfred huffed in disappointment- he'd hoped for something way more interesting! Well, these would have to do, he thought, and he quickly set about removing the books from the top drawer; they were all classic novels, he noticed, and pretty hefty too- someone in the house was clearly into reading. He flipped through them, hoping to find anything of interest between the pages- a photo perhaps, or a secret love note. But he found nothing.

It was at that very moment that someone knocked on the door; Alfred jumped and the book began to slip from his loosened grip. He juggled with it for a few seconds, and miraculously managed to keep hold of it so that it did not fall to the wooden floor below and arouse suspicion.

"Alfred, are you up yet?" The voice was Fleta's.

"Yeah, hang on a second!" Alfred called back in the most nonchalant tone he could muster. He wasn't sure why he felt as if he was doing something bad- after all, this was his room now! Yes! He could explore if he darn well wanted to! Alfred mentally made a note to continue searching for hidden treasure that evening as he gently replaced the books and closed the drawer before tip toeing over to the heavy oak door to his room.

As he opened it, he was met with Fleta's smiling face. "Hello Alfred!" She chirped, "We thought we'd let you have a lie-in; this week has been a little brutal for you, I think!" Alfred nodded vigorously at this, making Fleta chuckle gently.

"Don't worry, you'll be helping me today!" Alfred had to stop his face from falling- he didn't want to help with cooking! He sucked at it and it was super boring! Fleta seemed to pick up on his disappointment, because she shook her head and, as if reading his thoughts, she continued, "We're not cooking yet- I thought you might want to pop to town to help me with groceries".

At this, Alfred perked up considerably; there was a town nearby? What a relief! He had been worried that he would not encounter any other civilisation in his whole stay at the Kirkland cottage. It almost felt as if the family lived in a dimension that was completely and utterly void of other human beings…

Once Alfred was washed and dressed, he came downstairs to find the house surprisingly silent. Looking around, he couldn't see anyone, save himself and Fleta, who was humming gently as she prepared his breakfast in the kitchen.

He perked his ears: Still nothing.

Then a thought struck him, and he headed to one of the small windows through which the open fields of barley could be seen. Sure enough, if Alfred squinted hard enough he could just about see figures in the distance, clearly hard at work with machinery and tools. He shook his head in disbelief. _These people never rest!_ he thought to himself as he sat down at the strangely empty dining table.

The ride to town was bumpy in the rusty blue truck, since the trail up to the cottage was little more than a stony, muddy slope. Alfred felt that the possibility of vomiting all over the inside of the old vehicle was becoming more and more likely, and was relieved when they reached the paved road to town with his dignity still intact.

As Fleta spoke of the animals and plants that could be found in North Yorkshire, Alfred had his nose glued to the window as he watched the countryside go by; on his first journey to the cottage, what with the horrendous weather and equally awful taxi ride, he hadn't truly appreciated just how beautiful the scenery was. The landscape was devoid of houses, save for the odd farmhouse and barn; for the rest of the time, the only thing visible was vast stretches of what Fleta called 'heathland'. Swathes of purple flowers and tall, golden grass with the occasional windswept, gnarled tree. It was almost hostile, but Alfred found it tremendously beautiful. The emptiness made him feel calm- it was a world away from the hustle and bustle of New York, with its continuous flow of traffic and the hum of electric lights lining the skyscrapers above. He wound down the stiff window to let the crisp, fresh breeze smother his senses as he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.

This was heaven.

Alfred found that he was almost sad when a cluster of buildings came into view ahead, but the feeling quickly vanished as he excitedly imagined what he would find there: Was it big? Were there sweet shops? He wondered if he could get souvenirs for his dad.

Unfortunately, Alfred quickly realised that he had vastly overestimated what 'town' meant to Fleta. As they pulled up, the American gazed around avidly, only to see that this was little more than a village market.

In the middle of nowhere.

 _Never mind_ , he thought solemnly, _I'm sure this'll be fun_.

"We're here!" Fleta announced, as if the fact that she had parked up and was in the process of getting out of the truck did not give that fact away.

Alfred jumped out too and was handed several fabric bags. "I hope you don't mind carrying a little" Fleta had told him, "because there'll be too much for me to carry by myself!"

"It's ok, I'll help as much as I can Mrs. Kirkland!" Alfred beamed. The older woman blinked in surprise, then chuckled and ruffled Alfred's hair. "Call me Fleta!" She chided jokingly as they crossed the street to the market stands ahead.

For what felt like the millionth time during his short stay, Alfred found the sights surrounding him oddly alien and new; this market wasn't like the huge, writhing high streets of New York, nor like the indoor kerfuffle of the Chinese markets in Chinatown. Instead, it seemed to Alfred very quaint and dainty: the market consisted of a considerable row of stands, each sheltered by a canvas roof and lined with coloured bunting that fluttered gently in the crisp breeze cruising off the hills around them. The stands themselves were covered with a multitude of grown goods: Huge, red apples with the leafy stems still attached; a strange plant that looked a little like rhubarb (which Alfred was later told was called chard); little tubs of basil, fennel, parsley and coriander; strangely shaped carrots; freshly cut corn; blackberries; gooseberries…. The list went on and on. Alfred didn't even know what half of the displayed foods were, and he cursed his addiction to fast food and his ignorance to homegrown goods. Fleta, however, seemed to come into her own as she passed each stand, chatting easily to each owner about everything and nothing all at the same time- how the harvest had been, how the kids were, and oh! How nice the beetroots looked this year.

Alfred was whisked along, his mind trying desperately to take in the words that were flying around him and the new atmosphere that enveloped him as they continued. He enjoyed it, he decided; though it was totally foreign to what he knew and loved, Alfred felt that the whole experience was friendly, comforting almost. He quickly settled into the routine of opening the fabric bags for Fleta to place newly-purchased fruit and vegetables into. The American noted as the conversations around him continued that the people here, much like Mr. Kirkland, had strong, rich accents that rounded the syllables of every word in a way that was somewhat pleasant on the ears. Fleta, on the other hand, possessed a clear, well pronounced British accent that stood out in both its tone and flow. Alfred briefly wondered where she was from.

After a while, he noticed that they were approaching the last of the stands. It was not especially interesting with it's red, blue and white bunting lining the front of its wooden structure. Behind the trays of cheese and whole beetroots laid out on display a blonde, busty woman was staring at Alfred and Fleta with a look in her piercing blue eyes that Alfred couldn't quite place. It looked almost like… Resentment? Anger? Alfred searched for the right word as they approached, but he became distracted when he noticed Fleta's shoulders stiffen- it was very slight, almost unnoticeable really, but Alfred sensed himself becoming slightly anxious too, though the reason escaped him completely. Fleta seemed to change in that moment- her aura of friendliness dissipated and was replaced instead by a cold indifference. She eyed the cheeses with the scrutiny of a competition judge, then lifted her head to look at the blonde, who was eyeing her suspiciously. Fleta's eyes widened as if she'd only just noticed the other woman, and a plastic smile spread on her lips like a mask.

"Why hello there Melissa! How nice to see you again. Your cheeses look _delightful_ " The words held a strange lilt to them that felt forced in every sense. Alfred cringed a little and kept his eyes down. The other woman, however, took the same method:

"Good day to you too Fleta," She simpered in a sickly-sweet tone, "how are the children?"

"Oh, they're very well, thank you for asking"

"Oh good. And what about Arthur? How is he?" Fleta's jaw visibly tightened. "He's doing _great_ " She snapped flatly at the blonde before placing an arm on Alfred's shoulder and pulling him forwards rather more briskly than Alfred was prepared for.

"This is Alfred- he'll be staying with us for a while since his father is doing important business in his large company. in _America_ ".

The woman's whole demeanour changed upon hearing this and she suddenly smiled a large, toothy smile (which Alfred supposed was an attempt to be sexy) and leaned over the stand so that her breasts practically popped out of her low-cut blue top. Alfred tried his best to hide his disgust as he smiled and said just what a pleasure it was to meet her. This appeared to be a satisfactory response, because the blonde flipped her curly hair over her shoulder and laughed; it was probably supposed to sound bubbly and fun, but it came out a little whiny and close to hysterical. Fleta nodded a goodbye and they began to walk down the street to the permanent shops residing further on. But the woman suddenly called out to them, and with a loud sigh, Fleta turned her head and openly glared.

"Just to let you know" she paused for effect then continued; "rumour has it that the _caravans_ are coming by again".

Alfred scrunched his brow in confusion- caravans? What did she mean? Perhaps a circus? But why on Earth would Fleta care about a circus?

It was a few moments later that Alfred noticed just how still Fleta had become; he turned his gaze on her only to find that her eyes had become glazed and distant.

He wasn't sure what do: Hell, he didn't even know what the two women were on about!

Tentatively, he placed his hand on her shoulder. At the sudden contact, she flinched visibly and snapped out of her trance-like state to stare in obvious confusion at the American beside her. She quickly tried to hide her strange behaviour by smiling reassuringly, but her lips trembled as they had when she'd talked to Alfred in the hallway and her eyes didn't focus on him. She grabbed his shoulder and squeezed it tightly.

"come on Alfred, let's go home" Alfred nodded dumbly and allowed himself to be whisked passed the stands at a cracking pace. As Alfred glanced back behind him, he caught the gaze of the blonde woman- Melissa- once again.

And in that moment, the sentiment hidden in her eyes became so clear it was almost radiating from her entire being:

She stared at them with utter, unadulterated disgust.

Alfred swallowed nervously and turned away from her, an uncomfortable swell of unknown emotions erupting within his body as he climbed into the truck once more.

The ride home was distressingly silent; Fleta gripped the steering wheel as if her life depended on it and her vivid blue eyes stayed glued to the road. Meanwhile, Alfred squirmed in his seat in his efforts to contain the multitude of questions that choked up his spinning mind.

What on earth was going on?

Alfred knew that he wasn't the brightest kid on the block, but something was wrong here- _very_ wrong. From the moment he'd stepped into the Kirkland household, Alfred realised, something had been slightly off with the family. At this sudden realisation he felt himself shudder involuntarily.

He glanced sideways at Fleta, noting that her posture appeared a little more relaxed than earlier, though her eyes were still vacant and unseeing.

Alfred licked his lips nervously, mustering up the courage to ask one of the many questions that were threatening to spill from his dry lips.

"Um… Fleta?" The woman flinched and turned her head towards him- for a millisecond, her eyes widened, as if she had completely forgotten about the presence of the American in her truck, but she quickly recovered and forced a small, shaky smile onto her face.

"Sorry Alfred, I was just… Concentrating on the road" She licked her lips nervously; "Did you have a question?"

Alfred squirmed in his seat, debating as to whether or not it would be appropriate to confront the already shaken woman about the scene that had played out just minutes before. As per usual, his curiosity outweighed his politeness and his brow knitted itself into a confused frown.

"uh, yeah…. What was that all about? Back there in the market I mean. What was she on about?" Alfred gestured hopelessly with his hands, hoping that Fleta would cut in with a totally obvious answer that would set everything straight and remove the strange twisting feeling that was wrapping his gut with unease.

But Fleta stayed silent. After what felt like an eternity, Alfred was just about ready to excuse himself and tell her to forget he'd ever asked anything when she cleared her throat quietly. Alfred watched her intently, swallowing the lump in his own throat as he waited with baited breath.

Fleta sighed heavily as she glanced at the blonde beside her, and Alfred was bewildered to see a strange sort of sadness radiating from her moist blue eyes as she did so.

"Listen, Alfred… There's a lot that you don't know about us" she began, her voice low and secretive, as if others could possibly be overhearing their private utterings: "That woman doesn't like us because of something that happened a long time ago—but you mustn't take any notice!" She glanced at Alfred once again before continuing.

"What happened back then is history; she's just a bitter woman who likes to put others down. Don't worry about it, ok?"

Alfred nodded dumbly, but his mind was in a frenzy—

Why didn't she like the family?

What exactly had happened 'in the past'?

Fleta's answer had been too vague for his liking, but Alfred didn't want to push it further; after all, he still didn't know the Kirklands terribly well, and getting along with them had to be a priority.

"When we get back, I'll show you how to make Yorkshire puddings! They're also very traditional" Fleta chirped suddenly, making Alfred jump. Within a split second, her mood had altered totally, as if the recent exchange was nothing but a dream. She began chatting happily to the bemused American, and soon he too found himself back to his usual, high-spirited self. The niggling feeling at the back of his mind did not leave him however, even as he cooked alongside Fleta and tried to concentrate on her precise instructions for the meal, rather than the growing unease that had begun to grow unnoticed within him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hi guys! Still got a bit of writer's block so bear with me... Anyway, enjoy this new chapter and have an awesome day :)**

 **Chapter Five.**

That evening passed just like all the other evenings had beforehand; as the watery Sun began to slip tiredly out of the sky, the rowdy voices of the Kirkland siblings could be heard approaching the little cottage to rest their weary limbs and enjoy a home-cooked meal. Alfred felt a little nervous as he helped place the food onto the table, but was only met with appreciative words and smiles from the family. Relieved, Alfred allowed himself to mellow out as they all tucked in hungrily.

Everything felt calm and comforting. It was almost as if the encounter in the village had never happened, and Fleta was behaving perfectly naturally, though Alfred noted that she had yet to mention the day's events to Mr. Kirkland…

The American shook the lingering thoughts from his head as he passively observed the Kirkland family's interactions, watching their faces as they bantered and disputed inconsequential topics, flitting from one subject to the next with ease. Their closeness made him feel a strange sadness, one which had become familiar to him during his short stay with the family. He couldn't quite put his finger on why.

The American quickly found his focus drawn to Arthur, who was sat further down the table on the opposite side: He looked as if he was being positively crushed by Allistair, who was seated to his right and happened to be in the middle of commencing an arm-wrestle with a fuming Alannah. Arthur seemed to sense the American's gaze on him, for he turned his head and their eyes met for a brief second. But before Alfred could give so much as a smile, the British boy snapped his head back to his food, ears red with humiliation. Alfred was starting to feel a rising irritation towards Arthur's reluctance to open up, but he knew this was neither the time nor place to do anything about it and instead occupied himself with the food he and Fleta had prepared (which, he had to admit, was pretty darn good).

The rest of the evening was taken up with homework and reading; the Kirkland siblings sprawled themselves out in the living room with papers spread before them. The only notable sounds were heavy sighs and the crackling of the fire that bathed the room in a gentle, hazy light. Fleta sat on a chair close to the bright flames, embroidering a small white handkerchief with intense concentration. Alfred was surprised to find Arthur sat on the floor by her side with an embroidery circle in hand and the same furrowed brow. He smiled; though the activity seemed rather effeminate to him, it somehow suited the blonde very well. It didn't at all surprise Alfred that Arthur would have finished his homework already- he seemed very diligent, though of course Alfred knew he was just making assumptions. William (was that his name?) appeared to have finished too, for he was slumped against Ossian on the worn sofa, nose-deep in a thick book.

Alfred wasn't really sure what to do with himself- at first, he'd contented himself with a space on the floor (as far away from Mr. Kirkland as possible), lazily watching the red coals in the fireplace. But he soon found himself getting bored. His growing impatience was interrupted by a gasp from Fleta, which startled every occupant in the room. Fleta flicked her gaze around their expectant eyes sheepishly.

"Sorry", she chuckled warmly, "I've just remembered something". Her eyes fell on Alfred, and she grinned mischievously. Alfred gulped loudly. She turned to face him, placing the half-completed handkerchief and needle on the ground beside Arthur.

"Since you're staying with us for such a long period, your father and Albion though it might be a good idea if you went to college with the others—" at the horrified expression on Alfred's face, Fleta quickly continued "-but of course it's your choice! School could be fun, since it's so different to what you're probably used to! And I'm sure Arthur and William will look after you"

Fleta glanced at William, who nodded and smiled encouragingly.

Arthur didn't even look up.

Alfred was not convinced; he hadn't thought about possible education at all, though he should've realised it was coming. He recalled a vague memory of his father mentioning the words 'school' and 'new experience' in a one-sided conversation they'd shared before Alfred's departure. Alfred felt his shoulders sag in defeat, and he couldn't help but mentally chastise himself at his own naivety. He had, after all, been pulled out of 11th grade in the summer, so he was supposed to have started 12th grade already anyway. He bit his lip. There were really only two choices here:

One: He could go to school, or

Two: He could work on the farm.

With _Albion_.

Alfred shivered at the thought and begrudgingly nodded his head at Fleta; "Sure, I'll go. It might be… Fun". The word seemed to stick in his throat and he grimaced at the thought of education being anything but the dregs of hell itself.

Fleta was visibly relieved, and she smiled warmly at him.

"That's brilliant! Oh, you can wear one of Allistair's uniforms, since he was about your height when he was in school. He's finishing his last year at the agricultural college now so he won't be needing it anymore. Isn't that right, Allistair?"

The redhead in question barely registered his mother's rambling and merely grunted in response, his eyes never leaving the book in his hands. Alfred rubbed his arm anxiously; a uniform? They wore uniforms here? From his experience, almost no kids in the USA wore a uniform at this age…. Or at least, not that he knew of. The blonde glanced at Arthur, observing that the boy looked about as thrilled by the prospect of Alfred going to his school as Alfred himself. Alfred couldn't help but let a small smile slip onto his lips. _That makes two of us, buddy_ , he thought to himself.

Fleta swiftly disappeared upstairs, reappearing in the doorway a few minutes later and beckoning for Alfred to follow her as she climbed the stairs once more. The American wearily followed. He was led up the carpeted stairs and across the landing, which lay in semi-darkness.

"Make sure you're quiet, since Peter is probably asleep already" Fleta gestured at one of the doors a couple of metres away. Alfred nodded as they entered the bedroom next door to Peter's, which Alfred assumed to be Allistair's room.

The place was an absolute pig-sty; clothes, books and other items lay scattered on the floor, and the air held the distinct odour of sweaty feet. Alfred tried not wrinkle his nose in disgust: Thank God he wasn't sleeping here!

Fleta huffed loudly and began to gather up the various garments from the floor. "Sorry about the mess," she muttered apologetically, "that boy is useless at tidying up". Alfred took a few cautious steps into the chaos and smiled at Fleta.

"That's ok, don't worry about it" he assured her, glancing around at the array of posters surrounding him; they seemed to cover every inch of the room. He only recognised a few- most were heavy metal bands and Scottish memorabilia or whiskey adverts. The American quirked an eyebrow; Allistair sure had… _interesting_ tastes…

Meanwhile, Fleta had given up her futile attempt to clear the veritable mountain of crap on the floor and had instead begun rummaging through the wardrobe at the far right-hand side of the room. Alfred approached obediently, carefully tip-toeing through the mess to stand beside the busy mother.

After a few silent minutes (disturbed only by whispered cussing and apologies), Fleta turned to him triumphantly, flourishing what he assumed to be the fabled uniform. He scrutinized it carefully: To his surprise, it wasn't nearly as horrific as the image he'd conjured up in his mind. It merely consisted of navy-blue plaid pants, a navy blazer with an emblem on the breast pocket, a blue tie and a white polo shirt. Alfred couldn't help but breathe a large sigh of relief, which made Fleta chuckle warmly.

"Not as bad as you thought, right?" she asked him as she shut the wardrobe and guided him out of the room. Alfred blushed in embarrassment and grinned sheepishly.

"To be honest, I'm not sure what I was expecting!" He joked as they made their way across the dark landing to Alfred's room. Fleta finally turned to him, handing him the uniform and warning him that it would be an early start the next day, since the school was quite a distance away. With that, she wished him goodnight then returned to the living room to herd the rest of the adolescents upstairs. Alfred stared after her for a moment, his mind still reeling from the sudden situation that had been forced upon him. Shaking his head in disbelief, he stepped into his own room and shut the door gently behind him.

 _Well_ , he thought to himself, _tomorrow's gonna be one hell of a day_ …


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six.**

1:00am.

Alfred dropped the alarm clock in frustration and turned over, eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to fool his body and mind into thinking he was asleep.

Naturally, it didn't work.

The American finally rolled onto his back in defeat, his cornflower-blue eyes staring up into the darkness.

He was nervous, he knew it; the only times he couldn't sleep were when he was nervous or anxious for something. It was ridiculous really- he'd always been popular in school, and he was sure he could make a good impression... But what if it was totally different to what he was used to? What if the people thought he was weird because he was American?

What if the classes were too hard for him?

What if—

"Fuck!" Alfred sat up and shook his head vigorously: This was totally pointless. Worrying about that sort of thing wouldn't change anything. With a defeated sigh, Alfred switched on his bedside light and put on his glasses. He looked tiredly around the room, and silently berated himself for having not brought any decent books with him, since that was exactly what he needed at that moment. It was then that his gaze fell upon the desk that sat on the other side of the room from his bed, the wood appearing even richer in colour in the warm light of the little lamp beside him.

Alfred quietly slid out of bed and padded over to it, trying his best to avoid the creaky floorboards beneath his bare feet.

When he reached the desk, Alfred paused for a moment, gently running his hand over the smooth, cold surface. He traced one of the knots in the wood, admiring the way it grew into a rich, dark disc and then seemed to dissipate away, thinning out to nothing. It reminded him of the satellite images of storms on the surface of Jupiter that he'd so loved as a child, back when he'd dreamed of being an astronaut for NASA. He smiled at the memory, trying to quell the ache in his heart that made him long for home and familiarity.

Finally, the American let his deft fingers slide to the handle below the drawer he'd opened that very morning: With a gentle tug, he felt the drawer inch open, its mechanism a little stiffer than the drawer above. Alfred persisted, gently tugging at the metal knob until the drawer was open wide enough to reveal….

More books.

Alfred tried not to be disappointed.

After all, this was what he should've expected- the first drawer was merely a precursor for what was to come… Alfred knelt down onto the hard, cold floor; upon closer inspection, these books were not the same as those in the previous drawer.

No, these were more like notepads.

Interest suddenly piqued, Alfred reached for the top volume, noting that his hands were shaking a little, though whether it was down to anticipation or excitement he couldn't be sure. The book was heavy in his hands, its cover stained and a little faded, but the design was still clearly visible- green threads woven together into the forms of mythical creatures that shone as they caught the light: Graceful unicorns, dragons and elves all shared the threaded canvas with their twisted forms. It was beautiful. After closer inspection, Alfred guessed it wasn't as old as it had first appeared, for when he turned it over to the back cover, the brand name in the bottom corner looked modern enough.

Alfred admired the design again for a few seconds, before opening the heavy cover to the very first page; to his surprise, he found a few lines of very neat handwriting; Alfred squinted to decipher the immaculate lettering- it read 'On a Misty Summer's Night'. There was a date below, also in the same swirling calligraphy.

Alfred got up slowly as he flipped to the next page, which was filled with writing; this was a story, he realised suddenly as his blue eyes scanned the page. As silently as he could manage, Alfred tiptoed back to his bed, tucking himself under the covers with the book right in front of his nose. It didn't take long for him to become totally engrossed in the story, and as the book finally slipped from his hands and onto his peaceful sleeping face, Alfred's dreams were filled with the beautiful creatures from the well-worn pages.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven.**

"Alfred! It's time to get up" The muffled voice from behind the heavy oak door startled Alfred into consciousness, but when his eyes flicked open he only saw darkness. In the haze of sleep, his groggy mind panicked at this sudden state of blindness and he instinctively reached up to his face- only to have his hands come into contact with a hard, fabric surface.

Last nights' antics returned to him, and he sighed, carefully removing the book from his face and rubbing his sleep-deprived eyes.

Oh shit. Alfred's eyes snapped open at the sudden realisation that turned his stomach upside down.

He had school.

A rapid series of knocks on the door told the American that he would have to prove his consciousness if he was to be left alone.

"I'm up!" he shouted croakily, flicking the bedcovers off himself.

"Good, breakfast is in five minutes so get dressed quickly" Fleta's voice sounded a little strained, and Alfred guessed that she was probably having some trouble getting her large family up in time.

Hurriedly, Alfred set about pulling on the school uniform, hung beside the door, shivering as he left the warm sanctuary of his bed. Apart from the slightly oversized blazer, the whole thing fit pretty well, and the only trouble Alfred had was when it came to doing up his tie (a feat which he shamefully admitted he'd actually never achieved). After a couple of tries, the American huffed in annoyance and just left the necktie hanging round his neck. Scanning the room for anything he might need, Alfred noticed the book he'd been reading the night before, left forgotten on his crumpled bedsheets.

Alfred quickly seized and hid it in his bedside table; it felt a little stupid to stash something so mundane, but he didn't want to get scolded for meddling with what might be private. Besides, he wanted to continue reading it later.

Breakfast was a chaotic, to say the least:

Allistair was practically passed out on the table, moving only to open his mouth and half-heartedly gnaw the piece of toast which he held loosely in his hand. The twins were arguing over a milk spillage on the floor, Fleta hovering behind them, ready to intercept if things got out of hand; William was trying (and failing) to help Peter eat his cereal- the young boy was intent on being as awkward as possible in a futile attempt to be late for school…

The only calm person in the kitchen appeared to be Arthur, who sat at the far end, nose in a large book as he ate a bowl of porridge. Alfred grabbed a bowl and spoon and took the seat between the comatose Allistair and the oblivious blonde. Neither noticed the American sit down, and for a while harmony reined at the one end of the table, the only sounds audible being the clink of spoons against their ceramic counterparts and the ritualistic crunching of cereal.

A loud cursing from the other end of the table finally burst the peaceful bubble that Alfred had been relishing; Alannah had clearly been designated to clear up the milk on the wooden floor, but after some smug words from her twin (Alfred was sure his name was Ossian), she'd stamped on his foot. Hard.

Alfred didn't pay much attention to what happened next, for he was distracted by a sharp intake of breath beside him.

It was at that point that the blonde's sleep-addled mind finally told him that he was sat next to Arthur. The very same Arthur who was making it painfully obvious that he wanted to avoid Alfred at all costs. Alfred sheepishly turned his head to the younger blonde, and was surprised when met with two forest green eyes staring right back at him. The moment was cut short as Arthur tore his gaze away almost as if he'd been scolded, pulling down his neck and lifting his shoulders protectively. Alfred felt guilty, but he couldn't quite place why; after all, he had no idea what he'd done to upset the Kirkland boy to such an extent…

So instead he tried to expel the leaden atmosphere with a bright and cheery attitude;

"Hey Arthur! Did you sleep well? I hope college is good! Will you show me around?" The words were supposed to sound jolly, but they seemed instead to stick together awkwardly, filling the air between the two boys with a heavy feeling of false amity.

Arthur flicked his eyes up briefly before returning them to scrutinise the tablecloth. After what felt like an eternity, he nodded and let out a sound that might've been a 'hmm'. Alfred wanted to press him for more than this rather vague answer, but despite his growing frustration he knew that there wasn't time to question Arthur now.

Sighing, he raised himself from the table to place his dirty crockery in the sink, completely oblivious to the familiar green eyes boring into his back as he left the bustling room.

 **Right guys, the next chapter is gonna take a while, because a) I've got severe writer's block, and b) my track record for finishing stories is TERRIBLE. Anyway, I hope I'll be able to write a new chapter soon for you guys! If you have any suggestions please don't hesistate to tell me (new ideas wooh!). :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**Right, apology where an apology is due: I am SO SORRY! It's been one hell of a hectic term at uni! I've been bogged down with both work and personal family life continuously so far, and I suspect that it's only going to continue…. I swear I will actually finish this fic though (even though I am notoriously bad at finishing any story that's not a one-shot…), but you guys will have to be patient with me! Anyhoo, without further ado, here is a little Christmas chapter for you guys! Merry Christmas**

"And this is where you'll have your chemistry classes. Alfred, are you listening?"

Alfred was dragged out of his daydream by William's sing-song voice and furrowed brow. He nodded vehemently to say yes, he had of course been listening, though they both knew it was a total lie. William sighed but offered Alfred a pitiful smile.

"Don't worry, it's not so bad here", he beckoned for the American to follow him down a whitewashed corridor, "just so long as you get the right teachers. Most of them don't want to give you a hard time, but there are still some to watch out for…"

Alfred plodded behind William, hands in pockets as he surveyed the foreboding surroundings: It felt like he was voluntarily walking down the gullet of a snake; practically begging it to eat him.

Evidently, Alfred's father had contacted the college so that he could continue with the correct studies, leaving Alfred to feel a little sullen about the whole affair; he had hoped beyond all hope that he could pick new subjects, since science was most certainly not his scene.

At ALL.

However, his father had been adamant about it ("Alfred, anyone who is anything studies proper subjects, not _Sports Science_ ") and after countless heated arguments the American had wearily succumbed to his will.

For the moment, he'd been placed in second year according to his age and level, but it was likely that some changes would have to be made in order to bridge the differences in education style and content that he was used to.

Much to his chagrin, Alfred had been told that Arthur was only a first year, and would therefore not be in any of his classes. _So much for showing me around_ , Alfred thought bitterly.

The rest of the day passed very quickly- though he was a transfer student, Alfred was given a very minimal look-in by the other students, who clearly had much bigger fish to fry. A few of the girls gave him sideways glances before turning to their friends and having heated whisper-conversations. This was how Alfred preferred it; though he had enjoyed being the favourite back home, it was nice to be out of the spotlight for a while.

After being given a timetable, textbooks and a life's worth of information, Alfred stumbled out of his final class in a bit of a daze. In his confusion, he found himself staggering into what his bewildered brain assumed to be a wall.

Except this was a rather large, soft wall.

Alfred pulled back hastily, apologies spilling from his mouth in embarrassment. He looked up abashedly, only to be met with a cool, assessing gaze from violet coloured eyes, which were set into a rather rounded face either side of a curved and highly pronounced nose.

Alfred took another step back.

The boy smiled almost childishly down at Alfred (his height was staggering, even compared to Alfred) as if he were noticing a misbehaving toddler. It made Alfred feel both uneasy and angry, but he didn't want to be making enemies just yet.

"Um, hello?" Alfred tried to smile, hoping it didn't look as unnatural as it felt.

The tall boy continued to observe him for a few uncomfortable seconds before answering.

"Hello, I am Ivan. It is pleasure meeting you."

Both the heavy accent and the slight grammatical error told Alfred that this boy – Ivan - was foreign. He wondered if perhaps Ivan was new as well, and suddenly felt guilty for having judged him as he had.

"Well it's nice to meet you too Ivan! I'm Alfred"

At this, the boy's smile seemed to become more genuine and slightly less creepy, which eased Alfred's fear a little.

"I'm sorry, but I really have to get going right now, since it's a long way home"

The boy said nothing, so Alfred took it upon himself to make a hasty retreat before things got too awkward.

He was quickly distracted by a voice calling his name up ahead, and was relieved to spot William and Arthur in the packed corridor, trying their best to avoid the flow of human bodies that flooded the narrow space.

Alfred moved towards them, fighting his way through the human river with very slow progress. By the time he reached Arthur and William, he was all but out of breath, his uniform and hair looking far more chaotic than they had only moments beforehand.

William chuckled at the sight of the poor American;

"You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards!" He giggled. Alfred couldn't help but grin at the teasing comment and he tried to straighten up his blazer a little.

Alfred grinned. "Well thanks a bunch! You don't look much better yourself" He retorted with a laugh.

He then turned to Arthur and his smile widened. This was finally a chance to converse with the boy who had been avoiding him like the plague, and he was not going to miss it!

"Hi Arthur, did you have a good day?" He asked tentatively.

It came to Alfred as a shock when the blonde boy lifted his head and made direct, intended eye contact with him, and for a moment he was again breath-taken by the wonderful colour of his eyes, which appeared almost bottle green in the light from the large window beside them.

The look on the younger boy's face seemed to be one of surprise, bewilderment even, but he answered politely anyway.

"It was fine, thank you… Also, your tie isn't done up".

At this point, Alfred was startled out of his enraptured state and looked down at himself: Sure enough, his tie was hanging loosely either side of his collar, much in the style of a tired businessman returning home after a hard day's work. He vaguely recalled having forgotten to do it that very morning and suddenly felt like a bit of an idiot for not having the slightest clue on how to tie it.

"Uh, yeah, you're right!" He chuckled nervously, "I'll just do it now then".

He began to fumble clumsily with the two tie ends, his brow furrowed in concentration as if he were completing a serious maths question or defusing a live bomb. Arthur and William looked at each other in silent amusement and left Alfred to suffer for a few more moments before William finally placed a reassuring hand on the American's shoulder. Alfred flinched at the contact and looked up quickly, obviously flustered.

"Don't worry, I didn't learn until halfway through secondary school" He confided, voice low as if he were revealing something infinitely important. Alfred flushed red in embarrassment, but recovered easily, throwing his head back in laughter.

"It's so damn hard!" He answered, relieved that he didn't have to pretend anymore. William smiled, and was about to respond when Arthur interjected, surprising them both:

"I'll show you" He said quietly, "Just hold still".

It took Alfred a few long moments to respond. And even then, he just nodded dumbly and watched on, speechless, as Arthur proceeded to approach him somewhat cautiously and take the tie ends into his hands. His fine, slender hands, Alfred noted as Arthur began the complex process of tying the knot.

The proximity made Alfred feel a little nervous, and the words that usually came tumbling from his mouth in a cascade seemed to stay glued in his throat, as if their source had suddenly run dry.

The boy had almost finished when a group of rowdy lads passed them. This would've been of no concern to any of them if the one boy hadn't shouted:

"Hey, that's fucking gay! Jumping the new guy already faggot?"

All three looked up as the boys passed and for what felt like an eternity there was silence, before another voice piped up that made Alfred jump:

"FUCK YOU, ASSHOLES!"

Arthur was glaring after them, clearly seething if his balled fists and tensed shoulders told Alfred anything.

The American's head was reeling; here was Arthur, a boy he'd presumed to be painfully shy and introverted, not only talking to him but shouting expletives down the corridor at strangers. _You learn something new every day_ , he thought to himself, shaking his head in disbelief.

Arthur turned back towards them, grumbling under his breath and glaring into the middle distance. It was then that Alfred noticed the small badge on Arthur's own blazer; he leaned closer to have a look at it, only to have a hand forcefully pressed against his chest. He met Arthur's withering gaze and backed up quickly, blushing furiously and waving his hands before him defensively.

"No no, I was just… I was looking at your badge".

Arthur stared at him incredulously, then the American's words seemed to click and he looked down at his blazer.

"Ah, thank you for reminding me". With that, the blonde quickly set about undoing the pin and tucking the badge into his trouser pocket. With that, he spun on his heel and began walking to the exit. Alfred looked at William for some kind of explanation, and William shrugged, a slightly pitiful expression on his face.

"I think he doesn't want mum and dad to know that he's head boy at college" He finally explained "don't ask me why though, because I haven't the foggiest."

It took Alfred some time to realise that by mum and dad, he meant Fleta and Albion. He shuddered; the thought of calling Albion _dad_ was something he couldn't quite picture…

 _Strange though_ , Alfred pondered to himself; _surely it would make them very proud_ …

The thought slipped away as they headed down the hallway to the parking lot outside. Alfred found himself in a state of wonder- Arthur had spoken to him! And willingly too! And then, to top it all off, he'd been forward enough to do up his tie, which Alfred found himself touching as he thought about it. It appeared that Arthur acted quite differently outside the constraints of his home, though whether this was his true personality or not Alfred still wasn't entirely sure. He seemed to be on the defensive here too, though he was certainly more defiant about it.

With the experience still fresh in his mind, Alfred made the decision to try and watch Arthur as closely as possible at college, hopefully without the said Englishman noticing anything at all _. Alright Alfred!_ _You're gonna get to the bottom of this whole Arthur story_ , he thought to himself as he ran across the road to catch up with William and Arthur.

What Alfred didn't know was that so far, he'd only just scratched the tip of the iceberg…


	9. Chapter 9

**I'M BACK! And yes I'm sorry. AGAIN. I have permanent writer's block! But I WILL finish this story, I swear**

The days began to pass at great speed for Alfred- classes were hard, but as he settled in he started to make friends with the people he saw in his regular classes without too much difficulty. To his own surprise, he'd grown close to Ivan, the tall Russian boy he'd collided with on the first day, and though they had very different personalities, they shared many passions, including sports and competition (which could get quite fierce at times).

This coincidentally led Alfred to apply for some of the college sports teams. He had had to practically grovel at Fleta's feet to join them, because of course it meant he'd have to take the latest bus home since most of the clubs were after college hours and, if he missed it, she'd have to drive almost 45 minutes each way to fetch him. Eventually she'd caved, but on the condition that Alfred leave as soon as club time was over, to which Alfred had eagerly agreed.

The American had joined football with Ivan (which, it turned out, was rather different to the game he was used to), basketball, and just for the hell of it, archery: He thought it seemed like a pretty heroic sport, even if most of it merely consisted of standing still and aiming at a target.

What he hadn't bargained for, however, was to turn up for the first session and find a certain blonde attaching a quiver to the belt loop on his plaid trousers.

Alfred stood motionless in the doorway, a little stunned to see Arthur grabbing a bow off the stands at the far side of the large hall as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Alfred had no idea that Arthur participated in any kind of clubs, and certainly not a sport. After all, the blonde was not exactly built for high endurance. Not that Alfred minded that at all… But that was beside the point!

Arthur was so clearly in his element that it looked like he was performing something innate, something that was as natural as breathing. He held his head high and his strode confidently to the taped-out lines on the hall floor.

Alfred slipped in, placing his heavy bag down in the corner with the rest and standing close to a group of chatting teens, keen on blending in so that he could watch Arthur. He felt a little guilty for having intruded what felt like Arthur's personal space, but the excitement bubbling up within him insisted that this was a chance to see Arthur's true self. Hell, he might even have a proper conversation with the boy!

 _How did I not know about this earlier_?

Alfred knew he wasn't exactly the most observant person in the world, but Arthur being absent after college was something that should've been glaringly obvious. No one had mentioned it to him either, not even William or Fleta.

His thoughts were dragged back to the present as Arthur stood on the line marked out with tape in the centre of the hall, beyond which stood targets at various distances, each with a ringed bullseye, staring with unseeing red eyes back at the huddled students.

The American held his breath as Arthur took position, his lithe body pointing sideways onto one of the more distant bullseyes; he coolly eyed the coloured rings, and at that moment Alfred wished he could see the boy's face instead of the back of his head. He would've loved to see Arthur's expression…

And then, in one swift motion, Arthur drew the bow, his arms high and the string against his pale skin.

Alfred held his breath.

A split second later, Arthur released the arrow, which flew at lightning speed from the taught bowstring, slicing through the air and striking the centre of the bullseye with a jolting thud.

Alfred couldn't stop the grin spreading over his lips.

Arthur was _brilliant_.

An older looking teen shouted across the hall for the hushed newcomers to gather round, rousing Alfred from his stunned stupor. He shuffled obediently towards the group of babbling students forming in the corner, trying to keep himself as inconspicuous as he possibly could.

Arthur appeared to hesitate, noting that he should probably be setting a good example, but he decided to shoot just one more arrow before he joined them.

As he loaded the arrow onto it's tiny rest on the bow, he scanned the crowd of faces that now watched him expectantly, since the instructor was also waiting for Arthur to be done before he gave his talk.

Alfred realised too late that he too was gawking when he was supposed to be making himself as scarce as possible.

Arthur faltered as their eyes met, and though he tried to regain his composure, his concentration had all but disappeared; he released the arrow, which wobbled uncertainly in the air like a fledgling trying to leave the nest for the first time. But it was aimed way off the board, and hit the back wall with a definitive, painful clatter.

Arthur watched it for some time, then he turned his head back to Alfred and gave the American the most withering glare he'd ever received in his whole life.

Alfred cowered under the anger, feeling guilty for intruding Arthur's personal space. The heat on the back of his neck rose as he felt others in the group turn their eyes on him questioningly, but he pretended not to notice and spun round instead to the instructor, who was clearing his throat impatiently.

The instructor began to talk, but Alfred's focus was on the presence that had appeared behind him and the unnerving feeling of being intensely glared at. He ran his hand over the back of his neck, hoping it would show Arthur how sorry he was, but the feeling persisted. After what felt like hours, the instructor began beckoning to the older students in the group, giving them the exciting job of teaching the newbies how to use a bow and arrow.

And obviously, Arthur was put in charge of Alfred and two twins who spoke quickly to one another in a foreign language. Arthur looked like he wanted to argue with the coach, but after seeing it was a hopeless cause, he visibly deflated and beckoned the trio over with a resigned motion of his hand.

After he'd shown the twins – who, it turned out, were Italians- how to use the bows, he left them to their own devices.

As soon as they'd left his side, he turned angrily on Alfred, his thick eyebrows knitted together in undisguised fury.

"What the _bloody hell_ are you doing here?" He spat angrily, keeping his voice down to avoid causing a full-on commotion in the echoey hall.

Alfred held up his hands- a habit he appeared to have gotten into after his encounters with Arthur.

"Woah, chill out dude! I just wanted to check out archery! I had no idea that you'd be here" Alfred tried to keep his tone light. After all, he didn't want to annoy the Brit more than he already had.

But Arthur was having none of it:

"I bet you didn't. Who put you up to this then? Was it William?"

Now it was Alfred's turn to get annoyed.

"What the Hell Artie? No one 'put me up to this'! That's utterly ridiculous!"

Arthur scrutinised him with suspicion but, after finding nothing but indignant innocence in Alfred's gaze, he relented, shoulders slumping tiredly.

"Fine, fine. I'm…. Sorry" He said with some hesitance, dropping his gaze to the floor. Alfred allowed himself to relax a little and hummed his acceptance of Arthur's apology. Arthur sighed gently, then leaned down to pick up a bow from the stands by their feet.

"Here", he handed the bow to Alfred, "This one should be fine for you. The number here—" he indicated the number written in marker with a hash symbol in front of it—"indicates the tension of the string. You can start with this one and see how it feels".

Alfred just nodded, trying hard to comprehend the information Arthur continued giving him as he led him to the other side of the room. Boxes of arrows sat on the laminated floor, their heavy metal tips shining dully in the harsh white lights that hung above the boy's heads. Alfred went to pick some up, but Arthur stopped him with a light hand on his arm, which he retracted quickly as Alfred turned to look down at him quizzically.

Licking his lips a little nervously, Arthur said "You… Have to use the right size arrow for your arm length. I'll measure it for you". Alfred nodded dumbly as Arthur told him to stretch his arms outwards. He then grabbed a tape measure that had been sitting benignly on the floor next to the arrow boxes and roughly measured Alfred's arms. Alfred felt a blush creep onto his cheeks as Arthur's light hands pressed against his chest to keep the tape measure still. _How ridiculous_ , he thought to himself, _I really have to pull myself together! He's a_ guy _for God's sake!_

As quickly as Arthur started, he finished, clearing his throat awkwardly as he crouched down to search in the arrow boxes, presumably for the correct arrows for Alfred to use. Alfred watched on, for once unsure how to strike up a conversation. Arthur finally got back up and handed Alfred three arrows.

"You have long arms, so use these". He showed Alfred the different coloured stickers on the ends of the arrows, which roughly indicated the size class of the arrows. He avoided eye contact with Alfred (much to the American's chagrin), and even as he led Alfred to the shooting line his eyes flitted nervously around the room.

Just as Arthur was about to speak again, the Italian twins called out to him, making both the boys jump. Arthur glanced briefly at Alfred, then sighed and headed over to the twins, leaving Alfred feeling both relieved and disappointed, though for what reason he had no idea.

The instructor took over where Arthur had left off, guiding Alfred patiently and showing him the correct posture and technique. Once finished, he stood back and admired Alfred as if he were a completed work of art.

"Ok, you can release the arrow when you're ready" he said, stepping back a little to give Alfred some space. Alfred nodded nervously, then drew the arrow, trying to keep his outstretched arm steady. His deep blue eyes focused down the length of the arrow, towards one of the closer targets.

He took a deep breath, and released the arrow.

The bow quivered in his hand as if it were alive, and the thud of the arrow onto the target left Alfred feeling giddy and dazed all at the same time. He couldn't help the smile that spread across his face as he lowered the bow and eyed his handiwork; though the arrow wasn't anywhere near the target centre, he'd managed to hit the target board, something he considered to be a huge accomplishment. As he went to nock another arrow, he glanced down the shooting line.

Green eyes met blue, and Arthur smiled a little and nodded his head, congratulating Alfred on his first attempt. Alfred beamed back at him and gave a thumbs-up, which made the Brit grin and look away self-consciously.

The rest of the session passed rather quickly, and though Arthur was too busy to help Alfred, the American still enjoyed it immensely. Everyone turned out to be quite friendly, excluding the one Italian twin who seemed to be in a perpetually bad mood…

The instructor blew his whistle, signalling the end of the session. The students chattered loudly as they helped to clear up the equipment and gather their bags. Alfred waited for Arthur beside the large double doors as the other students filed out, some nodding to him and saying goodbye. Finally, Arthur appeared out of the storage room with the instructor, talking animatedly about something that Alfred couldn't quite make out. Alfred shifted on his feet and looked down at the floor, waiting impatiently for their conversation to end. His thoughts drifted and he slipped gently into a daydream.

The American was shocked back to the present by a purposeful throat clearing. He looked up sharply, regretting the movement immediately as his glasses flew off his face.

"Shit!" Alfred reached up instinctively to catch them, colliding with Arthur, who had had the same reaction. The glasses fell with a painful clatter to the floor, whilst the two boys retracted their arms at lightning speed and apologies flooded the air between them and the echoey space of the sports hall. Alfred knelt down quickly and collected his glasses, which had luckily survived the traumatic ordeal of the fall. As he slipped them onto the bridge of his nose, Alfred glanced around the hall to find it empty. He looked questioningly up at Arthur, who turned his eyes away sharply with a rosy flush on his cheeks. Alfred felt his own face heat up but forcefully pushed down the unknown emotions swirling in his mind and chest as he stood up.

"Um, where's the coach?" he asked as Arthur began leading them out of the echoing hall.

"He left a few minutes ago, but you didn't notice. What were you thinking about?" Arthur eyed him as he closed the door behind them. Alfred shrugged noncommittedly and smiled.

"Nothing interesting, sorry". Arthur smiled at that, and Alfred felt his heart flutter.

"Americans never think about anything interesting" He mocked as he turned away, leading Alfred towards the sports hall door. It creaked gently on its hinges as a gust of wind curled around it.

"Hey! We have the most interesting thoughts in the world! That's why we have NASA" Alfred protested as he trailed Arthur out of the hall.

The wind had picked up gradually during the day, and now it pinched at the faces of the two boys, reminding them that Autumn was just around the corner. The sky was a morose colour of grey, rendering the scenery drab and uninviting. The clouds looked heavy and dark. Arthur walked fast, and Alfred struggled to keep up as they crossed the near-empty car park.

"What time is it?" Arthur asked, his voice quickly pulled from his lips by the cold gusts that twirled around them menacingly.

Alfred took his phone out of his pocket, the screen bright in the dimming light outside.

6:15.

Alfred and Arthur gawked at each other.

"B-but the last bus is in five minutes!" Arthur stammered. That was all the encouragement Alfred needed to set off at a sprint towards the bus stop, dragging Arthur by the wrist before the British boy could say anything more.

"WHY DID YOU HAVE TO TALK TO THE COACH FOR SO LONG?" Alfred shouted behind him as his lungs screamed for air. He could hear Arthur panting behind him, their running rhythms unmatched and jerky.

"I…. LOST…. TRACK OF TIME" He shouted back, his voice punctuated by heavy breaths.

It was then that the heavens decided to open above them, drenching them within a few seconds and plastering their blond hair to their faces. Alfred's glasses became so blurry that he could no longer see, but he didn't slow his pace.

The two boys made it just in time, waving the bus down as it threatened to leave the stop without them. The bus driver glowered at them, his beady eyes devoid of sympathy as he took in their drenched uniforms and reddened noses.

Alfred slumped into a seat at the back of the bus. A few other students eyed him as he tried to regain his breath, and then turned to look at Arthur, who seemed to wither under their scrutiny. The English boy quickly took a seat a few rows in front of Alfred, his shoulders hunched and his head down, as if he was trying to disappear. Alfred watched in disbelief, at first thinking it was some kind of weird English humour, and that at any moment, Arthur would laugh, stand up, and come to sit next to him.

But as the seconds stretched to minutes, Alfred realised that Arthur wasn't about to move of his own will.

Why? Why wouldn't the Brit sit next to him? He hadn't seemed to care what anyone thought about him before, so why was he acting so strangely now?

Silence reigned in the humid space, save for the murmured conversations between friends and the rustling of coats. Alfred leaned forward in his seat:

" _Psssssst, Arthur_ ", he whispered as loudly as he dared.

No response.

"Hey, Arthur!" he tried again, this time a little more loudly. Arthur flinched and ducked his head still further. Other people in the bus turned to stare again at Alfred. He ignored them, annoyed at Arthur's random change in character yet again that day. Why was the boy so temperamental? It was as if he had different personalities.

Eventually, Alfred gave up trying to get Arthur to move: Instead, he gathered his things and shuffled to the row in which Arthur sat. It was more difficult than he had anticipated, because the bus driver decided to swerve as Alfred went to tap Arthur on the shoulder, causing the American to lose his balance and fall heavily into the other boy.

"What the bloody hell?" Was Arthur's immediate response. Then, as if suddenly remembering where he was, he looked down again and fell silent as Alfred steadied himself, face red with embarrassment.

"Uh, sorry… Could you move up?" Alfred mumbled, standing over Arthur. He could feel the eyes of the other students on his back.

Arthur looked up at him slowly. His nose was red and his hair clung to his forehead in messy strands. After what felt like an eternity, he moved to the seat closest to the window, finally allowing Alfred to sit beside him. Murmurs began around the bus, spurring Arthur to lean as far from Alfred as was physically possible, until he was practically part of the cold window. Alfred felt his mood sour and he glared at the other people on the bus. They quickly averted their eyes, though there were still unwanted glances in their direction.

The sky continued to darken as the bus bounced along the winding roads. Alfred watched the scenery go by, uncomfortable with the silence but unsure of how to address the small blond boy beside him.

One by one, the number of students began to dwindle as they reached their respective stops, until it was just Arthur and Alfred left. Still the silence persisted.

A large field in the distance caught Alfred's eye. It was no different to the others surrounding it but for the specs of colour littering its surface. Alfred squinted at them, trying to work out what they could possible be.

Eventually he tapped Arthur on the shoulder. Arthur jumped and turned to glare at him. Alfred pointed out the steamy window and Arthur followed his finger, wiping the window with his moist jumper sleeve to try to improve the visibility.

"What's in that field over there?" Alfred asked, cringing at the loudness of his own voice in the enclosed space.

"It's the Romani" Arthur answered simply, his voice barely a whisper above the rattle of the engine.

"Uhh, Romans then?" Alfred asked, confused. Arthur's mouth twitched into a smile.

"No you pillock. Romani. _Romani_. It's the proper term for gypsies. Those are their caravans". Alfred shrugged and smiled lightheartedly. Then a thought came to him.

"Someone at the market that Fleta took me to said something about 'the caravans'. Is that what they meant?"

Arthur nodded. He explained that a lot of people didn't appreciate having the Romani around.

"People here are intolerant of anything and anyone different to themselves" He continued, his voice darkening. Alfred wanted to ask more, but was loudly interrupted by the bus driver shouting at them to get off the bus. Neither of the boys had noticed it stop.

The evening was calm in the Kirkland household, though Arthur was, as per usual, absent once dinner was over. Mr. Kirkland was also absent, much to Alfred's delight. Fleta explained that he had gone to ensure the barley was drying in the storage barn- apparently if it got wet then the quality would lessen.

Alfred sat next to William on the sofa, scrolling through facebook on his phone, though the signal was too bad to load even half of the content. His mind played over the incident in the market again. Though what Arthur had told him on the bus was no doubt true, Alfred couldn't help but feel as if there was something more to what the woman- Melissa?- had said that day. As if the 'the caravans' had a different, more personal meaning for Fleta, or for the Kirklands in general. And why had she mentioned Arthur separately?

Without any other information at his disposal, Alfred could only speculate. All he could conclude was that however calm the surface of this family appeared, something decidedly sinister was stirring beneath.

Alfred was determined to find out exactly what that was. Not only for himself, but also for Arthur. There was something amiss with the English boy, and it troubled Alfred more and more with each passing day.

Alfred excused himself early that night. Once in pyjamas, he settled himself on his bed and picked up the handwritten book excitedly, quickly glancing around the room as if he were partaking in some illicit activity.

He read page after page, hungrily devouring the words and savouring the skill of the anonymous writer who wrote so beautifully. It was with great sadness that he finished it, his eyelids heavy and threatening sleep. He placed the book gently on the floor and closed his eyes.

As his mind gently drifted into sleep, his last conscious thought came and then slid away into the soothing darkness.

 _Who wrote it?_


End file.
